


Dembe's DMV Elusion

by NamelesslyNightlock



Series: The DMV's FBI (and Sometimes Criminal) Encounters [4]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Dealing with Red is hard work, Gen, Poor Dembe, Texting, dmv adventures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 01:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6544105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/pseuds/NamelesslyNightlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dembe is a quiet person and he never really says a lot. But when Red is in a difficult situation he knows who he needs to <strike>trick into</strike> <em>ask</em> for help, and a lot can be said despite a 160 character limit. </p><p>Red is forced to wait. Some text messages are exchanged. Dembe finds peace and quiet more elusive than he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dembe's DMV Elusion

**Author's Note:**

> This is much shorter than the previous ones, and basically my attempt to not simply repeat the same story in the waiting room of the DMV. But not to worry, we'll be returning to the waiting room next time.
> 
> As always, thanks to [whimsicalwombat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalwombat/pseuds/whimsicalwombat) for giving me ideas, no matter how unintentional.

This is a story of retribution. A story of small beginnings and great endings, of hope and of fear. But most of all, this is a story of a long suffering friendship.

Like all good stories, this one starts in the middle. After all the boring parts about setting up the scene and introducing characters, because nobody ever really needs all that. Some good stories, of course, do start at the end, but these generally leave the reader confused and wondering how on earth the characters are going to get from where they are to where they are going in only a short few hundred words, and then they end up missing the important bits.

No, this story begins in the middle, where all the action is happening but before everything is finally wrapped up.

It begins with Raymond Reddington asking Dembe Zuma a question. A simple question, really. So simple it was only mentioned in passing, and had Dembe not been paying attention he might have missed it.

But Dembe had long since learned that nothing Red ever said was without purpose, and he was hanging on to every word even if his attention appeared to be elsewhere. So he was well prepared with an answer the very moment after the question slipped past Reddington’s lips.

“No.”

“Dembe-“

“No. I will not be a circus rat while you go to fetch a doughnut and wait somewhere quiet. _Especially not after last time_. I will not.”

Red was rather taken aback, not only because it was more than Dembe usually said in an entire day but because as one of his most loyal and trusted friends, Dembe most often did as Red required. But despite this, Dembe was certainly his own person, and he certainly knew that this was something he would not do.

So Dembe drove Reddington to his destination, dropped him off with a smile and a wave and left. He could have been doing something productive, but instead Dembe decided to have a quiet afternoon. After all, it had not been long since the whole debacle with Solomon, with first being captured by a lunatic with a love of torture and then being placed in an FBI holding cell. Perhaps the cell was a little more accommodating, but also slightly more humiliating. Since then, he had spent every moment running around for Reddington, either doing little errands, spying on people, organising the purchase of apartments that he really did _not_ agree with and helping out the FBI - the very people who had held him prisoner only weeks earlier.

Really, he deserved a break, if only for an hour or so.

So instead of heading for some secret hideout or criminal seminar, Dembe drove to a quaint little cafe and ordered a pot of coffee. He sat outside under the shade of a small green tree, sipping at his hot drink and gazing about in contentment.

There was no expectations of him here. No one looking to him for safety or advice. He could merely relax, become just another commuter enjoying a spot of quiet before heading back to work.

Now, this may not seem like the busiest part of this story. It may seem slow or dull. But this surely is where the action belongs, for at this moment, just as he allowed himself to settle down into his chair, Dembe’s phone began to buzz.

He didn’t look at it at first. It wasn’t going to be an emergency; Reddington was in the DMV after all, and while that place bred madness nothing serious was going to happen to him. His daughter and grandchild didn't have the number for that particular phone and, well, any body else could wait.

But he was only given a couple more minutes of peace before the incessant phone buzzed once again, not pleased with the fact that Dembe had not so much as glanced at the message it was attempting to deliver.

With a roll of his eyes, Dembe pulled the phone out of his pocket and glanced at the lock screen. He was about to put the phone away when he paused. And looked again.

Then he unlocked the phone and opened up the text-messaging app before staring at it once more.

No. That couldn’t be right.

The message itself was odd, and it was made even more so by the fact that it was _Reddington_ who had sent it.

Dembe tilted his phone to different angles, gave it a little shake, and even went into his contacts to make sure that ‘Nick’s Pizza’ was definitely listed for Red’s current number. As he did this, another message came through.

 

 

 

 

Frowning, Dembe began to tap out his own message. Because this wasn’t like Reddington at all.

 

 

The response was as swift as it was surprising.

 

And immediately after:

Dembe took a sip from his mug. It was true, he could have gone in Reddington’s place. But why? Red was the one who put himself in this position - after sending two FBI agents into the DMV instead of going himself, Red had managed to anger Glen and thus endanger a valuable source of information. Dembe had discouraged him from using to the agents as ‘placeholders,’ as he’d called them, but Red had insisted that it was something that need to be done. But now Glen would give Reddington no more help unless he went himself and actually _waited_ in line.

That was never going to go over well. Reddington never was a particularly patient man.

 

Dembe couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him at the memory. Red had long since declared the incident one that was never to be mentioned again - his current situation must be pretty terrible if he had brought that up.

Having been friends with Reddington for as long as he had, Dembe had gained an insight to his psyche that not many others managed to glimpse. This meant that he knew how Red’s basic methods of manipulation and scheming worked, and he knew that bringing up something which would only ever serve as embarrassment or blackmail towards himself meant that Reddington was about to—

 

 —ask for something.

  
Rolling his eyes, Dembe once again decided that a response was necessary. He considered for a moment, not wanting to do something that would insult his friend, before deciding that the best course of action was probably to remind Red why he had decided to put himself through the torment of the DMV in the first place.

 

There was no response.

Dembe waited for several minutes before he placed the phone on the table, and even then he shot periodic glances at the upturned screen. But Red was not forthcoming, and with a shrug he decided it probably meant that Red knew he had a point but was too stubborn or too proud to admit it.

Indeed, the next message, which arrived perhaps ten minutes later, clearly stated that Red had decided to stay.

Well, at least to someone who had known Reddington a long time.

Deciding it was probably best to ignore that message - if responded to, Red would probably wax on about a trip he took once with a butcher, a baker and three pretty women in Tibet, and how he was going to destroy Glen just as he did that candlestick maker - Dembe merely poured himself another mug of coffee. It was nice to just sit like this, people watching and simply just enjoying the peace.

A buzz and a flash of light caught Dembe’s attention, and he squeezed his eyes shut for one moment before glancing at his messages again.

Oh this was not going to end well. Dembe shut his eyes again, wishing he hadn’t looked the first time. But the phone was buzzing again and listening to Reddington was always like a car crash - you knew it was terrible, and you knew you should look away. But no matter how hard you tried, you just had to _see_.

And the longer you look, the _worse_ it seems to get.

 

 Dear Lord, there was no way he was going to-

 

Of course he was.

Dembe rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead, then pressed his palms over his eyelids. With a soft groan, he glared at the phone as if the entire thing was the poor device’s fault. He typed out his simple query, pressing his fingers down too hard and mentally reprimanding himself for figuratively shooting the messenger. But really, what was the man thinking?

 

 

Hopefully Red would get the tone of the text and keep his head down. But no response came, and Dembe was left with a decision.

Just as this story started in the middle, so it shall end in the middle. For nobody needs to hear how Red’s attempted coup in the waiting room of the DMV ended in the tears of old ladies holding numerical slips of paper, or how Glen was so disturbed by the entire scene he meekly decided to allow Red to once again make use of ‘FBI place holders.’

And certainly no one needs to hear about how Reddington claimed that this was his plan from the very beginning.

No, all of that is rather irrelevant and best left to the imagination. Instead, think of Dembe as he stared at this message from Red, wondering if his long suffered friend had finally been pushed off the deep end by his line of work and bored people waiting in line.

Poor Dembe, left to debate whether he leave Red to his self-induced fate or go and help as he always did.

For Dembe, there was never really much of a choice.

He typed out his final message, but hesitated with his thumb over the send button. Almost wistfully, Dembe allowed his eyes to skim over the details of the café in front of him. The coffee pot was long since empty, as he had thrown back the contents unconsciously as he dealt with the ever present stress of Raymond Reddington. But there were still small brown droplets clinging to the glass, slowly slipping away to pool at the bottom of the jug as they lost their hold. The trees lining the sidewalk were swaying in the light breeze, and the people that walked by chatted to each other or into their phones about anything and everything.

With a sigh, Dembe pushed away from the table and stood up. A life of relaxation was not for him - if it hadn’t been for watching Red’s crisis from afar, he probably wouldn’t have been able to sit in one place for as long as he had. He was never going to get away from it all, but to be honest… he didn’t quite want to.

Lips curling up in stoic amusement, Dembe pressed down on the send button and walked away, leaving the quaint little café and his moments of quiet behind him.

 


End file.
